The Parisian Angel
by we'llmakeyoufuckinsick
Summary: AU: Kyouya's first real business trip to France, and such nights are, of course, not to be spent alone. Free from the constraints of Japan, he indulges himself with a certain blond. Rated M For KyoxTam.
1. The Angel of Paris

_**The Parisian Angel.**_

_'Passion makes idiots of the cleverist men, and makes the biggest idiots clever.'_  
_- Francois de La Rochefoucauld._

* * *

I had never before visited France. It's a very lonely place, but their red-light district is exceptional.

Some violet-eyed blond worked me out of my tie and shirt with quick, elegant fingers. Over the buzz of the engine I had asked him briefly, during our ride to the hotel, why he had chosen to get involved in such a business. He had told me weakly that sometimes looking after your family means more to you than having respect for your body.

Now here we were in Le Meurice, a famed luxury hotel in Paris. The room was decorated heavily in a majestic red, the sheets were silk, and the view was a phenomenal flashing of city lights and La Louvre. I hoped he appreciated my wealth as much as I appreciated his warm mouth on my collar bone. He kissed and bit over my neck and whispered to me in fluent Japanese while I silently thanked his heritage for giving him such a beautiful gift; that wet, smooth tongue of his.

The sirens rang through the streets far below. I rested my head back on the soft, fluffy pillow and let go of everything, disconnecting. In Japan I would never dare to do such a thing, but I felt very safe around this man. His weight on my crotch was comforting, and the way his gentle fingers made light work of my belt put me at ease. Experienced and absolutely charming. A work of art. I reached my hand up and caught his jaw, and he became still. I smiled to myself and examined him through glazed eyes.

"Beautiful." I told him, stroking my thumb roughly over his cheek, if only to watch his soft skin move beneath mine.

"Why are you here tonight, Mr. Ootori?" He asked me as he pulled off my black work trousers. Everything became heavy and solid again. I sat up and looked at him, expressionless now.

"That's none of your concern." I told him coldly. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a warm smile, his melodic laugh filling the room.

"Suit yourself. Only, I like to know my clients before I work with them. It makes the experience more personal." With that, he took my face in his hands and forcefully kissed my lips. I kissed him back fiercely, but he easily matched my passion and pushed my rising shoulders down against the sheets again. The blond's hands ran soothingly up my sides, as if to calm me. I wasn't sure why; that wasn't his job, after all. Though, similarly myself, it seemed as if he was willing to go above and beyond for his clients.

I watched him climb swiftly off me and gracefully make his way over to the radio. He flicked on some French music with a strong beat and a powerful bass, turning it up loudly. And then he turned out the lights.

"My name is Tamaki Suoh." The Parisian boy purred to me as he walked back over and straddled me. "And I am the best at what I do in all of Paris." He declared with a wild and delighted smile that lit up his eyes. The violet dimmed as he looked back down at me, and I saw clearly what that look said.

'But what a job to be the best at, hmm?'

I looked back at him, sympathetically at first, and then more sternly.

'Yes, and neither of us had much choice. None of us do. Perhaps never will.'

It was a simple, yet deep understanding that passed between us.

I looked at my work clothes on the floor. He smiled sadly and nuzzled his head into my shoulder, beginning to undress himself. I found my own hands stilling him, and I began to free him of his shirt. My lips sought his as actively as he had sought mine, and as the useless white material fell around his hips, I locked my fingers in the small of his back and stroked over his gentle curves. He was beautiful.

I caught onto his shoulders and rolled over, pushing him firmly down. I heard his breath hitch with surprise, and then a light laugh burst from his lips. I chuckled quietly, resting my forehead against his. Of all my sexual encounters, this somehow felt the most intimate, although I had only known the boy an hour or so. Perhaps it was the openness of his eyes, the tenderness of his lips, or the way a broken man could hold himself with so much dignity. Or perhaps it was none of that. Perhaps it was that in another time or place, he and I could have worked.

I laughed bitterly at myself. This damned country was turning me into a romanticist. I stripped him down bare, and I loved him. Every inch of his body reminded me of something angelic, and indeed, there was something celestial about it. In my mind, I would (from then on) remember him as 'the Parisian angel boy' in my fondest, private recollections.

I reached beneath my bed and pulled out a small bag, taking out some lube; this wasn't my first night in France. I heard him breathe a gentle sigh of relief.

Time slipped. It was one of my angel boy's powers. I amused myself with the title.

* * *

My long fingers eased out of him, wet and aching, but the lower half of my body ached far more demandingly and longingly. Through the faint light that poured in through the window, I could see his illuminated cheeks burning with a blush, his sweet lips parted. I leaned back up, wiping my fingers across the sheets and locking my hand against Tamaki's shoulder, my lips by his ear. The other hand supported me and trembled slightly from the tightness of my muscles.

The blond nipped my ear and I thrust into him. Tight. _Tight_? Was he new?_ Not_ broken? We didn't make love, we fucked. Perhaps I broke him... We_ fucked_.


	2. Financial Losses in France

**_Financial Losses in France._**

_'What's money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night_  
_and in between does what he wants to do. _'  
_- Bob Dylan._

* * *

In the airport, I was thinking about him. On the plane, I was thinking about him. Two months later, back in Japan, I was thinking about him.

All the nights I spent in the Cerulean Tower hotel in Tokyo (strictly on business, of course), I stared out of those large cold glass windows with disinterest. The greater metropolitan area was spread out before me and I thought plainly, for all of its culture, its business, its exceptional technological advances – this isn't France.

There's an expression regarding human nature, how we always want the things we can't have. I suppose that's particularly true of myself. I hadn't gotten his contact details, or given him my business card. I had done much of what's expected, and so did he. I allowed him to stay the night, and come morning I paid him. We shook hands and he left. I wasn't deeply moved by it all, simply irritated, because for the first time in my life I felt powerless. Perhaps Tamaki was an alias. Perhaps I'd never see him again, even if I scoured every street in Paris – not that I'd be willing to do such a thing.

I began seeking out qualities more reminiscent of France. That devilish magic that he had worked that night had indeed left its mark on me. The hotel in Shibuya, which had always charmed me, suddenly lost its appeal, and I began staying in the Hotel Okura Tokyo. Here, the rooms were decorated in warm colours and I could dine on French Cuisine of an evening at the Terrace Restaurant. They even had an art museum that I frequented after long days of work that dragged and clunked. But I fell in love and was contented with my own company again. My ego relaxed after its brief flinching away fear at the idea of dependency and I, I could come home to France and still be at the centre of one of the three global cities, with access to all the marketing and financial tools that I required.

Work excelled, as in my better moods, I could work for tirelessly into the early hours of the morning. My business, after all, was my life. These people that depended on me for their jobs were my family, and I could not disappoint. I imagined they were working as hard as I was in order to improve our business. We dealt mostly with the development and establishment of privatised hospitals and even countries that didn't initially agree with such notions eventually conceded once we threw money at it. Such bribery and corruption is far more common in Asia – it's simply good business, nothing more. The given country can invest in public spending despite the current economic crisis thanks to our generous donations (a policy which was particularly popular in France) and our profits begin to rise as the rich are separated from the poor and served well by our exquisite company.

And that is how we met again. Perhaps some would call it 'fate'. For me, it is merely a coincidence, but fortunate or unfortunate I cannot decide. We had set up a private hospital in Paris three years prior. In fact, my first visit had been regarding that very thing, primarily attending meetings to decide whether or not to give it the funding it needed to carry on for another year. I had declined. This particular hospital was obviously costing more than it was worth. However, only six months later, here I was again.

Paris hadn't changed much, and nor had Le Meurice. I chose the same room, not out of sentimentality, but because I am generally inclined to stick with something if I know that it works – in fact, by now, that whore had almost faded from my mind. It had been early summer when I had last visited, but now it was mid-November and my mind was preoccupied with the heavy task of Christmas. Texts from Fuyumi buzzed asking me what I wanted made me curl my lip and pause with a careful patience. I would reply -

"Don't remind me of that, Fuyumi, it's much too early! Haha. I will see you next month." Polite and courteous, but only because she was my sister. I was actually very annoyed that she would remind me of that, knowing well enough that I hated the holiday and would spend the rest of my evening dreading it.

It was the second day in France. I was supposed to be taking one last look at the hospital and though I would have ordinarily declined such furious requests from the managerial staff, I was already supposed to be going to France to pick up some crates of wine for my father's next business dinner. This way, I could shut up the hospital for good, and fulfil Yoshio's request. At least, that was my intention.

As the morning supposedly arrived – though you could hardly tell from the lack of light - I hung around lazily in bed. I didn't want to get up at all, and had spent the morning watching the news in bed, wearing a warm, baggy black jumper that hung around my thighs. However, duty called (as did the screeching alarm at my bedside) and so I reluctantly removed my comforting clothing, setting my jaw tightly so that I wouldn't tremble from the cold – I was very sensitive to such changes – and pulled on my shirt for work, along with my trousers and a tight black belt.

Then everything was dull again, the volume was turned down, and I mechanically went through the motions, engaging where necessary and then switching back off again. As I had expected, they took me to the intensive care ward for the critically ill. It was a way of trying to tug at heart strings that I didn't have, or if I did have them they were protected by armour of sorts, perhaps akin to the shell of a beetle. It was all very routine and mundane.

That is, until _he _caught my eye.

Impossible! Improbable – or perhaps perfectly typical... That angel faced temptation, laying before me - No.

He was a whore in a hospital bed, his body broken - but his face... his face was still perfectly beautiful.

I couldn't resist pausing in my step just briefly, examining him. Tamaki had been beaten within an inch of his life, and it looked as though he had perhaps been stabbed as well. Anger, sympathy, and then the practical condemnation; he should have expected it in such an occupation - a statistic flickered in my mind. Eighty two percent of prostitutes reported being physically assaulted at some point during their career. It was his own fault...

But still, I wondered at his untouched face. Was it so angelic that even the most brutal of men were deterred from staining it? I laughed at myself inwardly. Of course not. He had probably just been covering his face at all costs, vain man as he undoubtedly was. I walked past him and continued my inspection, my mind mute.

Night came and Fuyumi text me again about Christmas. The girl was impossible and I felt quite isolated – I had expected her of all people to understand that I wanted as little to do with the holiday as possible. But Fuyumi was like the rest of my family, intelligent. It may be that she was trying to manipulate me to think charitably, given that she knew I had intended to shut down the hospital this weekend. Unfortunately, due to a combination of her irritating reminder and remembering the broken whore, I complied. I wrote a large cheque and set it on the bedside table, now beginning to concern myself with what could have happened to the blond. And why, if he could afford private healthcare in one of _my _hospitals, was he working on the streets in the first place?

I took off my glasses and set them on the bedside table before turning out the lights. I eased off my clothes and climbed into bed, laying still and staring up at the ceiling while I turned over numbers in my head and considered what this could cost me over the next financial year. It wasn't a great loss, or else I would have ripped up that cheque then and there. But it was a loss, nonetheless. My brow furrowed in irritation and I slammed my fist against the mattress beneath me with a rough sigh. That stupid _whore._


	3. Lessons in Living

**_A Lesson in Living. _**

_'Concern for Man and his fate must always form the chief interest of all technical endeavours._  
_Never foget this in the midst of your diagrams and equations.'  
- Albert Einstein._

* * *

Come morning, I had thrown myself into quite the panic; my mind had been lingering in some dreary, wandering state as it often can on the borders of sleep but instead of seeking out peace, the state of being drew me to a rather unpleasant realisation. Perhaps it would seem mediocre to others but it must be understood that I pride myself on my organisation – and _I_ had forgotten my father's wine. I was supposed to be picking up a few bottles of Romané-Conti, as well as the cheaper La Tâche and Echézeaux, all, of course, produced in the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. They were for a business party he was hosting at the weekend. How exactly I had forgotten, I'm not quite sure but I was strongly inclined to think it had something to do with that damned hospital.

In my flustered and appalled state, I tripped out of bed and grabbed at my clothes as if they were my only salvation while everything else, my mood in particular, sank. I mentally dismissed the idea of using public transport, unwilling to spend the morning with others now I was in a foul mood from insufficient sleep (I didn't trust myself not to shame the family name) and weighed down under the irrational impression that I was very short on time and could not afford to put my faith in others. In reality, time was not a concern – but disorganisation has that effect on me. I struggled into my suit and fled downstairs, only allowing myself any semblance of relaxation and reassurance once I was steadily on my way down the A6, in my little rented car heading straight towards Burgundy, where the estate I wanted to purchase from was based. Only then did I actually allow myself to check the time. It was still dark so I knew it could be any time up until around 9am. Damn winters. I squinted as the little glowing red lines that spelled the time out to me from the dashboard. 05:05. I nearly crashed the car then in my despair – that would've been on purpose of course.

However, as it stood... well... if you have ever seen the Boulevard Périphérique from overhead, you'll know that it looks like a little tangle of nerves or veins. Frankly speaking, it's an ugly mess that somewhat resembles a man-made tumour. Awful thing. It was this that I was reflecting on as I drove onto the bridge that runs out over the black waters which would otherwise cut me off from my destination. Due primarily, I suppose, to this mixture of my own preoccupation with the boulevard's aesthetics and my tired, lacklustre state, rather than choosing to crash that flimsy little rented car, I didn't even have time to acknowledge the car that crashed directly into mine.


End file.
